Grows That Way (10 page)

chapter
nineteen

My dad and I are sitting alone at the dining room table. He's not talking, and he's wearing his predatory bird face. Clearly he's mad at me for something. I hear a tapping at the window and turn to see Brooklyn peering in at us. Ah—it's a dream. Brooklyn's wearing his bridle and saddle. He wants me to come out and go for a ride, which would be a much better dream than one where I'm sitting waiting for my dad to explode all over me.

I don't even bother to balance on my seat bones or sit tall. I just say, “Dad, I'm going for a ride on Brooklyn now,” and get up from the table and walk out the door.

I know—this is totally unrealistic. But it's my dream, and I'm in charge.

The trouble is, when I get outside, there's no sign of Brooklyn on the lawn, so I won't be doing any riding. I consider the front door, and there's no way I'm going back inside. Only one option remains. I wake myself up.

I wish I'd had a more useful dream, because today I'm heading out on a sasquatch safari.

When Dad came back from his “walk” last night, Mom phoned Mr. Losino and gave permission for me to join him on an expedition, and Mr. Losino suggested we go out today. Mom told me I had to ask Kansas if it was okay that we went through her property. I didn't know what I would say to her because Mr. Losino wanted everything kept top secret outside of family. Fortunately I got Kansas's answering machine, and left a message that we were coming out for a hike, which wasn't even a lie.

Mr. Losino told my mom that anyone from my family was welcome to join us, so I'm taking Grandpa and Isobel, and I'm going to ride Brooklyn. Mom said she wanted to stay home for some quiet time. Dad said he didn't have time to go on wild goose chases, which is fine with me, I don't want him to come.

I'm all confused about my dad. Partly I know I'm feeling hurt because he was angry with me and didn't believe I saw a sasquatch. Mostly I'm upset that he's so adamant he doesn't have a hormone deficiency, as though it would be a shameful thing, while for months he and Mom have been telling me that my hormone deficiency is no big deal. He is such a hypocrite. Fine for me to have to take estrogen replacement therapy, but him taking testosterone is something totally different. He'll never get tested, I know he won't.

Grandpa's rental car is a Toyota Yaris and from the outside it looks really small, but once you get inside you can see how deceiving it is. There's tons of room in the back for me and all the extra stuff that Grandpa and Isobel say they have to bring, like slickers in case it rains, trekking poles for rough terrain, snacks for when their blood sugar gets low, changes of socks, changes of shoes, rain hats, sun hats, sunscreen, water bottles and a first aid kit from St. John Ambulance. I didn't know going for a walk was so complicated once you got old.

Grandpa and Isobel chatter back and forth to each other as we drive out to the barn, so from the back seat I can study Isobel's nose without her noticing. She must be self-conscious about it. I sure would be. I wonder why she never had plastic surgery. I wonder how she manages to kiss Grandpa without poking his eye out.

Grandpa says, “You're quiet back there, Pipsqueak. Got anything on your mind?”

“No, not really,” I say. I'm sure not going to mention what I've been thinking about.

“Are you worried about your dad?” says Isobel.

“Worried? I don't think so,” I say.

“You're probably angry with him,” says Grandpa.

I think about that. It doesn't seem right to be angry with him. I'm supposed to love and respect him.

“Maybe just disappointed,” says Isobel, turning to smile at me.

I nod, because this sounds about right. Disappointed is enough.

Grandpa and Isobel watch me ride Brooklyn in the ring until Logan and Mr. Losino arrive. Mr. Losino is driving an old yellow truck, or at least I think it's a truck. There's a sign on the door saying “Sasquatch Research.” So much for top secret.

“Is that a Land Rover?” says Grandpa, full of admiration. “I haven't seen an old beauty like this for a coon's age.”

Mr. Losino pats the hood affectionately, like I would pat a horse. “Yessiree,” he says, “this old girl has seen lots of interesting country.”

Kansas finally shows up, looking like she just got out of bed, though I know she hasn't because the horses were turned out when we got there and all the stalls had been cleaned. She's met my grandpa before, but I introduce her to everyone else. I tell her we're going on a sasquatch hunt and she doesn't even raise an eyebrow. This is so unlike her.

Logan climbs into the bed of the truck, lifts his bike over the side and lowers it gently to the ground. He warms up with some tricks. Obviously he's showing off, which is sweet, except that he sprays the gravel in the parking lot, and I make him rake it flat before Kansas says anything.

Mr. Losino tells Kansas that the very best way to spot sasquatches is from horseback, but Kansas says she doesn't run the sort of stable that has rental horses. Kansas doesn't want to come with us either. She says she isn't feeling well. Isobel suggests some ginger tea. I hope Kansas doesn't have some fatal disease, though if she did maybe I could run the stable for her until she died tragically and left everything to me in her will. Kansas shows me how to put the halter overtop of Brooklyn's bridle and tie the lead rope around his neck with a noose knot which I can undo and then tether him to a tree by the river if I need to.

Brooklyn likes following Logan on his bike. I have to keep asking Brooklyn to slow down, he actually draws close enough to breathe down Logan's neck. I think this makes Logan a bit scared, though he never says so, he just laughs and pedals faster.

Before we race too far ahead, Mr. Losino yells for us to wait, he doesn't want us to scare off the sasquatch, which reminds me why we're all here. I'd forgotten somehow, and I'm quite happy for the adults to catch up. Grandpa is breathing heavily so Isobel insists on taking the backpack. Mr. Losino already has one stuffed with all his scientific gear and a plastic bucket dangling off the back.

When we arrive at the river, there's no sasquatch at the far side, which frankly is a great relief to me. I point to the place where I saw it though, and Mr. Losino wades across in his gumboots, and then Grandpa and Isobel take off their shoes even though this means walking without their orthotics which for some reason is never supposed to happen. They act like a couple of kids being bad. Grandpa says, “I won't tell if you won't tell.” And Isobel says she sure won't tell if Grandpa won't. Oh brother.

I take off Brooklyn's saddle so he doesn't rub it on a tree, then remove his bridle, slip the halter back on and tether him to an alder. When I'm finished, I see Logan hasn't crossed the river with everyone else. He's sitting on a boulder waiting for me.

I'm feeling more relaxed than last time I was here because Brooklyn has his head down eating grass, which means there isn't a sasquatch within a mile or two. I take a seat on a rock beside Logan. My rock is quite a bit taller so for once I can look Logan in the eyes without getting a kink in my neck, which is very nice. We both take off our helmets. Logan gives me a stick of gum. I catch a whiff of his medicated shampoo and move closer.

“I sure hope I haven't wasted everyone's time,” I say. “Sometimes I think I imagined everything.”

“You wouldn't do that,” says Logan. “You don't make things up.”

“Yes I do,” I say. “I used to imagine you had a unicorn horn sticking out of your forehead. I thought that's why you wore a hat all the time when school started this year.”

Logan snorts. “If only,” he says. “Franco shaved my head in August. He said it would be less girly. I looked stupid.”

“It's grown back very well,” I say, peering closely. “And there's no sign of dandruff anywhere.”

Logan blinks. “Thanks?” he says eventually.

“I used to think I was growing a horn too,” I tell him. I flip over my helmet and show him where I carved out a space in the Styrofoam liner. I lift my bangs so he can see the lump on my forehead.

“That is so cool,” he says. He runs a finger over the bump, down my nose and for a fraction of a second I feel his fingertip on my lips. Or maybe I imagined it. It was light as a feather, and scented like liniment.

I take his hand and hold it close to my nose and sniff. “What is that smell?” I say.

Logan flips his hand and curls his fingers around mine. “That'll be Franco's special macho sports skin tonic. He sprays some on my palms whenever he has the chance. He wants to make sure I don't turn gay.”

“I wouldn't care if you were gay,” I say, only because I know what it's like to be teased and bullied for being who you are.

“I know you wouldn't,” says Logan. “But I'm not.”

He squeezes my hand and holds it tight. Message received, and I'm swept into a panicky silence. We sit so quietly that I'm aware of Logan's pulse through my hand. I've never felt so close with someone in my life. I can feel his heart!

“I hope that special macho sports tonic doesn't make you turn out like Franco,” I say. It's a weak joke, because I need to distract myself. I'm feeling excited and frightened at the same time. I hope Logan can't feel my pulse, which is hammering away like a rabbit's.

Logan laughs. “Are you kidding? Franco is such a bonehead he's probably spending a fortune on perfumed water. I'm not stupid, I wouldn't let him spray me if I thought it would actually do something to me.”

“You are getting taller,” I say, and then without thinking properly, “and you've started growing a mustache.” I shouldn't have said this—what if Logan was self-conscious about the line of brown fluff on his upper lip?

“You noticed!” he says.

Good grief, he's proud of the thing.

He strokes the fringe of hairs with a fingertip like he's soothing a pet baby caterpillar. “I'll be trimming it pretty soon, it's not long enough yet. But this isn't from the sports spray. Remember what my mom told you—I'm a late bloomer, or at least I am in comparison to Franco. He started changing when he was about ten. He was shaving when he was thirteen, back when he still allowed me in the bathroom. Not that I'd want to spend time closed in a small room with him now—he's gone too crazy and he rages all the time.”

“Maybe he's testosterone-deficient,” I say. “That happened to my grandpa, and he says it might be why my dad is so irritable. My grandpa uses a testosterone patch.” I stop because Logan is laughing.

“Oh yeah, you're so funny. I can just imagine asking Franco if maybe he's low on testosterone. He'd knock my head clear off with one of his fifty-pound weights.”

To be polite I make some laughing noises, though something about this is bothering me.

Across the river, Mr. Losino is hunched over, peering at the ground as he works his way slowly down the sandy stretch near where I saw the sasquatch. Grandpa and Isobel are sitting close together on a big rock; I think they're doing pulse checks.

Logan drops my hand and unties his shoes. “Come on, Sylvia,” he says. “Let's cross the river.”

I raise my freed hand to my nose and catch a faint whiff of the tonic. “The thing is, Logan, this stuff doesn't smell perfume-y. It smells more medicinal. It reminds me of the liniment we use on the horses' legs sometimes, and Kansas always warns me about it and tells me not to use too much or it can burn, and I have to wear rubber gloves because she doesn't want me absorbing anything through my skin that hasn't been approved for human consumption by the Food and Drug Administration. Do you know anything about it or why Franco uses it? Have you ever read the ingredients on the label?”

Logan kicks off his shoes. “Franco says it helps him build muscles. He buys it off the Internet. He won't let me read the contents and he hides the bottle in his gym bag after he uses it. Which reminds me, it's supposed to be a big secret. Franco made me promise not to tell anyone about it. So don't say anything or he'll kill us both.”

Of course I nod my head in agreement, the last thing I want to do is make Franco angry. Plus I like having a secret with Logan. Then another possibility occurs to me and I say, “You don't suppose it's an illegal drug, do you? Like the stuff Olympic athletes use until it shows up in their urine tests?”

“I don't know,” says Logan, peeling off his socks. “I figured it was something harmless, like some Chinese herbal thing.”

“It's not harmless if it's made by poachers from the parts of endangered wild animals,” I say.

There are short black hairs poking through the skin on the top of Logan's big toe, and a line of hairs along the ridge of his foot.

“Oh,” says Logan. “You're right. I hadn't thought of that.”

“Maybe it's made from ground up sasquatch hair,” I say. “Maybe that's why almost all the sasquatches disappeared. They've been poached for the Chinese traditional medicine industry, like the white rhinos and the mountain gorillas in Africa.”

“Hey!” shouts Mr. Losino from across the river. “We found something! A footprint!”